


My son, you would put your hands on mine

by Splat_Dragon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Blood, Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description of Corpses, Illnesses, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: His boy wasn't breathing.His baby boy wasn't breathing.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	My son, you would put your hands on mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDoodleNoodle_WA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDoodleNoodle_WA/gifts).



> Inspired by dialogue by TheDoodleNoodle_WA

His boy wasn't breathing.

Oh God, his baby boy wasn't breathing.

  
  


It hadn't escaped him that his boy was getting sick. But he'd thought… he'd thought… at first, he'd thought that he'd get better if they waited. But he'd only gotten worse. His clothes hung off of him, his skin clung to his face. But he'd thought, just one more job and they could see a doctor, get him treated. And his boy would be fine, would be hale and healthy.

(He refused to acknowledge the blood he saw on the corner of his boy's mouth.)

  
  


His boy wasn't breathing.

  
  


And then his boy hadn't been spending time in camp, and he'd let himself pretend he was getting better. He was so busy, he hadn't seen him. Maybe he weighed a little more when he saw him by the campfire? Maybe his eyes weren't as red as before when he saw him talking to Smith? Maybe his coughs weren't as wet when he climbed onto his horse? 

  
  


His baby boy wasn't breathing.

  
  


He hated when Arthur spent the night in camp. His coughing kept him awake, and he couldn't pretend that things were okay half as well.

  
  


Dutch couldn't breath.

  
  


That night, Arthur's coughing had woken him up.

Unlike the other times, it hadn't stopped. Had kept going, and going, and going. Gotten worse and worse, and he'd stuck his head out to see Bill and Javier who, he knew, had been at odds with the man, hovering as though to go into his tent.

And then it _had_ ended, abruptly and mid-cough, and something had settled ice cold in his chest, and before he knew what he was doing he'd been shoving passed them and into Arthur's tent.

  
  


Dutch couldn't breathe.

  
  


Metal had clogged the air.

Thick enough that Dutch had choked, had thought to find a murder scene but it had been _so much worse_ because it was _his fault._

  
  


His boy hadn't been breathing.

  
  


He'd looked dead. His face had been rapidly turning yellowish, color returning where it had long gone parchment pale, red dots horridly dark around his eyes and mouth blue. And the blood

_Oh God, the blood_

His mouth had been filthy with it, his chin soaked in red. His sleeping shirt had been so red as to be black, the blood already drying.

  
  


His boy hadn't been breathing.

  
  


And he'd been staring, blue turning white before his very eyes, face slack and expressionless.

"...Arthur?"

But Arthur hadn't responded. Hadn't blinked, or coughed, or laughed.

"Arthur, son, wake up." he'd pleaded, but Arthur, as he'd done so often lately, had disappointed him.

  
  


His baby boy wasn't breathing. 

  
  


"Arthur… Arthur, son, please. I'm begging you, whatever you want. I'll do whatever you want, just _say something, please."_

  
  


His baby was dead. 


End file.
